


Crossed Connections

by elderwitty, squidgie



Series: Citrus Hill [3]
Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Citrus Hill, M/M, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-13
Updated: 2010-11-13
Packaged: 2017-10-13 04:52:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/133152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elderwitty/pseuds/elderwitty, https://archiveofourown.org/users/squidgie/pseuds/squidgie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'verse summary: AU.  Rodney was bad at work, and has been exiled by SGC to a tiny town outside of Gainesville, Florida.  This is the story of Rodney's time in Citrus Hill, a handsome guy named John who he meets under less-than-optimal circumstances, and how he learns a bit about life in the South.</p><p>Story summary:  Rodney needs a nap, and John has a good, then a bad day. After that, it's gravy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crossed Connections

The feel of John's lips is still an echo of warmth on Rodney's face and neck (and the sting of the windshield still burns across his forehead) when he gets out of the truck.  He looks back and sees John watching him cross the driveway, halogen headlamps lighting the way.  As he turns the key in the lock, he twists back to see John one last time that evening.  He's just in time to see John cock his head to the side, wearing the most authentic pout he’d never expected to see on the face of a fully-grown man.  Rodney's wave is returned, and then he crosses the threshold and shuts the door behind him.  It's only after hearing the engine rev up and the truck stealing John out of his life for the evening that he remembers to breathe again.  He leans back against the door, head connecting with a _thunk_ , and utters the only word he can manage to describe the date that just ended.

" _Wow…_ "

With a soft smile that would flabbergast his colleagues, Rodney reminisces until the phone startles him.  He stomps to his desk and picks it up, cursing it and whoever is on the other end of the line for invading his evening and trampling his emotional high.  " _What_?!" he barks into the phone, sounding harsh even for him.

"Well, now," comes the wry response.  "I can see the remote Florida wilderness is doing your stress levels a world of good already, Rodney?"

Rodney brings his free hand up to his face, as if he can wipe the interruption-induced frustration away.  "Doctor Weir," Rodney starts, forcing his voice into to a more conciliatory tone.  "What can I do for you?"

"Are you settled in?"  Small talk is never Elizabeth's strongest suit, but she’s making the effort.  Especially since she desperately wants Rodney back at SGC; he is obviously the project's best scientific mind.  His exile hadn't been her idea, though she understands the General's reasoning and had acquiesced to his demands.

A sigh escapes.  "As well as can be expected, I guess."  He allows his mind to wander back over the vibrant memories of the evening, and the kiss he shared in a recycling truck.  His mood picks up at the thought of seeing John the next morning, and the potential for another date.

"Good, good.  So, has the delivery arrived yet?"

Looking around, Rodney asks, "Delivery?"  He turns on the front porch light and peers outside, not quite sure what he's looking for, but searching nonetheless.

It sounds like Elizabeth is shuffling papers on her desk.  "Yes, umm."  More rustling.  "I sent some relics your way.  Some things from Atlantis, and we'd like your input on them.  They should have reached Gainesville a couple of hours ago."  Still more shuffling, as if Doctor Weir is having trouble finding her item.  "Are you sure it's not on your porch, Rodney? Or maybe they left it with a neighbor?"

"Yeah.  Sure," Rodney responds caustically.  "You ship me ancient artifacts all the way from the Pegasus galaxy, and the military just _leaves it with some yokel?_ " 

"Yes, of course," Weir offers apologetically.  She’ll never admit it, but she’d come to enjoy the snark and vitriolic complaints that Rodney brought to his lab, and misses them now that levels have dipped in his absence.  She smiles at Rodney's response, caustic though it had been.  "I'm sure they'll be there with it soon."

"Thanks."  Rodney darts over to his computer, to start catching up on the avalanche of email that, no doubt, had come in from the office during his outing.  "I'll put on a pot of coffee and wait for it to show up."

"Okay.  Have a good night, Rodney."

"You too." 

Rodney starts to put the phone back in the cradle, but stops when he hears a sudden outburst from the other end of the line, "Umm, Rodney?  _Rodney_?"

"Yes, Elizabeth?"

Weir is slow to respond, but curiosity has gotten the best of her.  "Where were you tonight?" she asks, adding quickly, "Not that it's any of my business.  It's just that I called a couple of times, and you didn't pick up."

Memories of his night with John race once again to the front of his mind.  "I was, uhh."  He smiles contentedly.  "I was out with a friend.  A new friend."

" _Rodney!_ "  The approval in Elizabeth's voice is quite apparent.  "Good for you!  That's wonderful news," Elizabeth gushes.  "You know what this means, right?"

Rodney frowns confusedly, though Weir couldn't have known across the phone line.  "Um.  No?"

"Rodney.  The sooner you can demonstrate to the SGC that you're calmer and more relaxed - and making friends and going out is a very good sign - well...the sooner you can come back!"

Going back to the SGC.  The thought hits him like a shot of lemon juice lurking in an otherwise delicious pie.  "Oh."  He nearly misses as he sets the phone on the cradle. Pre-occupied by thoughts of John, and thoughts of _leaving_ John, he doesn't respond to the blaring of the ringer, only catching the second call when he hears Weir's voice calling from his answering machine.  "Yes?" he answers dejectedly.

" _Rodney_?  What's wrong with you?"  The concern in his boss's voice is sincere, though tempered by irritation at his rudeness.  "Nothing, nothing," Rodney responds.  He tries to play down the situation.  "Just, uh... Just a lot to think about, you know?"

Concern now conspicuously absent from her voice, Elizabeth responds, "Yes."  She sighs, satisfied with his answer.  "Yes, it is," she concludes before hanging up.

Phone calls dismissed, Rodney heads to the kitchen to put on a pot of coffee.  It will be his companion throughout the long night, though he would trade it in a heartbeat to share the night with John.  Just as he pours his first cup, the military transport rumbles into his driveway.  He meets them at the door, letting the two large Marines do the heavy lifting.  "Yeah, uh.  Just put it in here," Rodney says, directing them to a corner of his living room cum makeshift office.

Delivery complete and paperwork signed (in triplicate), Rodney sees the men out.  "I don't suppose you have a hammer…or crowbar," he calls after the Marines as they get back into their transport.  The older Marine catches his eye and grunts.  Rodney snorts, "I'll take that as a no," before retreating into the house to start unpacking his new research subjects.

It's not long before Rodney is lost in his work.  He didn't intend to work through the night, but as he waits for yet another pot of coffee to finish brewing, he stares through the kitchen window into the luscious pinks and fading dark blues of the morning sky, contemplating the artifacts he has been studying.  He absently sucks the cut on his thumb (the result of being unable to find his longest screwdriver, and eventually resorting to a butter knife and hammer to open the crate) mentally urging the coffeemaker to finish its rich, life-giving brew.  After filling his cup, he goes back to the living room and studies the objects, all shapes and sizes, finally settling on the small unit that a colleague theorized was a personal shield, according to the attached note.  After a couple hours of analysis and more yawns than he cares to admit, he checks his watch.  Normally, while working through the night he would lose track of time and think nothing of it.  But today he is watching the clock closely, nervously ticking down the hours until noon - when John will show up.

Around 9am, Rodney starts getting antsy.  Nervous about John's impending appearance, he's ingested way too much coffee, leading to exorbitantly high blood-caffeine levels - even for him.  Needing to do something besides stare aimlessly at the artifact, he paces, picking up objects and studying them, before setting them down again in random spots around the room.  He fingers the minuscule phone book and brings it to his nose, taking a deep whiff; even almost 24 hours later it still holds John's scent, bringing a smile to his face.  Looking at his watch for approximately the tenth time in as many minutes, he realizes that the rest of the world should be up and about and decides to call the city.  He finds the half-page of Citrus Hill city listings, finger landing on ‘Office of the Mayor’.  He sits at his desk and dials, mentally organizing a list of efficiency measures the city is sure to appreciate.

"Umm, hello?" There's a distracted voice on the other end of the phone, with odd background noises accompanying it.

"Yes, umm," Rodney starts hesitantly, thrown off by the decidedly unofficial sounds coming over the line.  "My name is Doctor Rodney McKay."  Rodney feels his brow settling into the furrows that always appear when he’s confronted with illogic or stupidity.  "This, um, _is_ the Citrus Hill Mayor's office?"

"Yeah, hon," comes the casual response.  Then Rodney swears he hears a second, tinny, voice say, " _That'll be $4.65.  First window, please_."  Rodney stares at the receiver in his hand like it's one of the relics he's been studying.  After a few seconds (and a _really good_ incredulous stare) he brings it back to his hear, hearing the voice ask, "Are you there?"

"Yes, I'm here.  Where are you?" he demands.

"Honey, I'm not quite in the office yet.  My name's Laura, and I'm the Mayor and Town Council's assistant.  What can I do for you?"  The woman’s drawl is nearly sweet enough to induce an insulin coma in even the fittest person.

Rodney rolls his eyes and tries not to let his sarcasm come through.  Much.  "Yes, I'd like to make an appointment with the Mayor.  Possibly address the City Council, too.  Would that be possible?"

"Oh, yeah, definitely, " Laura assures him.  “We have a city council meeting the beginning of next month.  You wanna come talk then?"

A month would give him more time to organize his ideas, Rodney thinks.  Maybe even convince an intern back at SGC to put together a PowerPoint presentation for him.  "Yeah.  That'll work."  And now, Rodney _knows_ he’s hearing coins clinking as someone counts change in the background. 

"Okay, but I gotta put you on the agenda.  You said your name was Doctor-"

Rodney cuts her off abruptly.  "Doctor Rodney McKay."

"Shoot, can you hold on a minute?"

Flustered, Rodney again stares at the phone.  "Okay" he grits out, on the verge of losing his temper.

He hears the woman again, though she's obviously not talking to him.  "Can y'all give me a pen?  Oh, and an extra napkin" she asks whoever it is before coming back to Rodney.  "I'm sorry, I'm not in the office.  I'm at the drive-thru gettin' breakfast.  They just gave me a- _SHOOT_!"

Rodney's now partially deaf and mostly apoplectic, and is just about to start screaming into the phone when Laura comes back.  "I'm real sorry 'bout that.  I just spilled coffee in my lap."

With as much controlled vitriol Rodney can muster, he advises (though some might call it yelling), "Well, _maybe_ you shouldn't try to do city business _in the middle of giving your breakfast order to some pimply-face seventeen year old-"_

"Oh, honey, it ain't a problem.  Here."  Rodney hears a ripping sound, then Laura continues with, "I got a piece of paper," (which is really a corner of the bag that held her breakfast burrito, now that her napkin cum steno-pad was soaking up spilled coffee).  "Now what was your name again?"

Enunciating each syllable slowly, "Doctor.  Rodney.  McKay."

"Oh, yeah, the egghead scientist that John keeps goin' on about.  Nice to meet you!"

The mention of John's name brings thoughts of John, which drains the remaining ire from Rodney's being.  He calms down a bit.  "Yes, John's new friend," he states agreeably.

"Okay, honey.  Well, I'll certainly add you to the meeting schedule.  It's the second Wednesday of every month, at city hall.  7:30pm.  You know where that is?" she asks, voice muffled as if by a mouthful of steaming hot, delicious breakfast burrito."

"Yeah.  Yeah, I do.  Thanks," Rodney adds sardonically.  He hangs up before any more weirdness can encroach on the call.

By 10:30am, Rodney is starting to get fuzzy in the head.  He puts another pot of coffee on, but forgets to hit _Start_.  He also keeps misplacing the artifacts he's carrying around, studying.  Or, at least, he tells himself that he's studying them, but the reality is that he's just killing time 'til John shows up.  He picks up a football-sized one and carries it into the kitchen, setting it in the bay window while he tends to the coffeemaker.  When he realizes he's doing himself no good (and probably doesn’t want John to see him in his current state) he reasons that he could do with a quick nap and goes into the back bedroom to lay down, setting his alarm to wake him in one hour.

~*~*~

John's day starts early, but as soon as he gets out of bed, a goofy smile attaches itself, and he feels like there's nothing that could drain his high from the night before.  He'd kissed Rodney.  Hadn't meant to; it was more like he _had_ to.  And he didn't mind that their first kiss was in the cab of his recycling truck; it was one first kiss that both men would remember for quite some time.

All along his route, John greets his fellow townsfolk with a light air and a spring in his step.  He lets Joe Joe, bruised knee and all, climb up into the cab with him and spends ten minutes watching him push buttons and pull levers (that John directs him to).  He’s a little behind schedule, pulling up to Rodney's house at quarter to noon and announcing himself by "bangling" the trash cans around.

It doesn't produce the desired affect; Rodney doesn't appear.  "Come on, buddy…" John wishes, voice barely above a whisper.  He continues with his work, loading the cans up onto his carrier, taking care to be especially noisy along the way.  But even making enough noise to wake the proverbial dead doesn’t bring Rodney out to him. 

"Oh crap…"

John has encountered a few issues when it comes to dating in the South.  The conservative nature of the area dictates that what happens at nighttime behind closed doors doesn’t always show itself in the light of day.  John is settled in who he is, and challenges those who aren’t comfortable with that - whether it's him dating a guy, or a gay friend's reaction to John once dating a woman.  John is happy being who he is.  There is just one thing he is unsure of in the current situation, and that’s Rodney.

Abandoning the cans, he debates peering into the windows for any sign that Rodney is even home.  (Though the car is in the garage - yes, he checked).  He's almost talked himself out of it by the time he goes back to gather his cart but stops to peer into the kitchen window because, he rationalizes, it’s on the way.  Gazing in, eyes cupped against the bright sun, John sees very little.  Only a full coffee cup, an empty coffee pot, and a strange green object glowing on the windowsill.

Dejected, John heads back to the cart and drags the containers out to his truck.  He empties them while worry fills his thoughts.  After returning the cans to the side of Rodney's house, John makes the slow, arduous walk back to his truck and clambers in.  He looks to the passenger's seat that had held Rodney just a scant few hours before and sighs.  John fingers the package of Reese's Peanut Butter Cups he'd picked up in his travels, now just another treat he figures he won't be sharing with his new friend.

~*~*~

Rodney awakes to silence and subdued lighting.  Rubbing his eyes gently, he startles awake, realizing that he should have been jolted awake in broad daylight by his alarm clock - which now reads 6:37pm.  " _Oh, shit!_ " he yells, running for the side of the house, only to find his garbage cans empty.  No note, no other sign that John had been there.

Worried and annoyed, Rodney goes back in the house and sits at his desk, cursing himself for staying up all night and missing John.  He picks up the phone book and looks for a listing for John Mayer, but comes up blank.  Even scanning through first names leaves him frustrated.  There are way too many people named John for him to call them all, even in a town this small.  Rodney turns to the entry for _Sheppard Hauling_ and dials, hoping someone is there even at this hour.  After a few rings, voicemail picks up and pleasantly asks him to leave his name and number.  Rodney hangs up before the beep comes, and drops his face into his hands.

 ~*~*

Across town, John is just pulling into his own driveway.  Missing Rodney seemed to have been a turning point in the day.  He'd slammed his finger into a trash can (and would probably lose _another_ nail), been yelled at by a jogger who thought John came too close for comfort, and been chased by the Pemberton's dog.  To be fair, the dog was approximately 137 years old, with an arthritic hip and more drool than bark, and had never been a real threat to John in the past.  But after John'd tripped on a stump in the Pemberton's front yard, ol' Jethro had actually caught him and ripped his jumpsuit pant leg all to hell before the ancient couple could even get out their front door, much less call him back.  _Yet another repair to send over to Laura_ , he thinks, tugging at the ripped material.

He droops into the house, puts away his mail and looks out onto the backyard.  Citrus Hill, for all its shortcomings in regards to John's social life, always redeems itself this time of night.  The easterly breeze, rich with the scent of early spring flowers, washes over John, easing some of the gloom of his bad day.  Thoughts of Rodney fill his head, though he tries to push them down.  He decides that he'll be cordial next time he sees Rodney, but reminds himself that he needs to prepare for the worst.  _Just in case_.

Wandering into the kitchen, John pulls a bottled beer from the refrigerator, twisting off the top and flipping it into the recycling bin in one fluid motion.  He notices the blinking light on his answering machine, and presses the button hoping the message is from Rodney.  Laura Cadman's boisterous voice fills his kitchen.

" _Hey John.  I know you're comin' in tomorrow morning, but I wanted to remind you ‘bout that guy from County.  He'll be here at 10am, so wear something nice.  A tie, even - and not one of those tacky clip-ons Bubba wears.  Oh, and your **boyfriend** called this mornin'.  Wants to present some sort of efficiency stuff to you and the City Council at next month's meeting.  I put him on the agenda._ "  The recording pauses, as if the receiver was halfway to hung up but brought back so Laura could add, " _Now y'all behave yourself!  You're the Mayor 'round these parts now.  I don't want y'all getting caught out neckin' or skinny dippin' in Pastor Warren's pond. **Again**._ "  With that, the machine beeps, as if Laura's laughter wasn't enough to indicate the end of her message.

At the words, ‘boyfriend called _this morning’_ , John feels hope slipping closer, though he's not ready to toss aside his planned caution.  He decides to call and get every detail of her conversation with Rodney.  After taking a pull from his beer, he dials Laura's number.

She answers the phone, "Took you long enough", and he smiles for the first time since Rodney's house.  They discuss Rodney's call, John demanding, "Tell me _everything,_ " but Laura's description isn't detailed enough for him.  Rodney ‘sounded angry’ is about all he gets out of her.  He's still not sure what to do, so he decides to shelve it for the time being and wait until he sees Rodney again before getting his hopes up.  He tells himself that he'd gladly trade this uneasy feeling for the teenage giddiness he felt last night, especially if he was sharing it with Rodney.

After a couple sleepless nights, and what feels like dozens of boring meetings with the County, John is anxious to get back to what he deems ‘more honest’ work - manual labor.  So it’s perfect when one of the tree trimmers calls in sick Thursday morning.  Before Cadman can stop him, John has donned his freshly patched coveralls and headed out to the main square, chainsaw and tree trimming equipment in hand.  The work has a calming influence, and he's able to focus on the routine tasks of climbing and trimming, rather than brooding over the Rodney situation.   

At mid-day, shoulders aching with a good morning's work, he crosses to the truck parked under another of the gracious old trees that line the square and retrieves a thermos full of cool Gatorade.  After taking a few long pulls, he wipes a couple of stray drops from his lips and focuses on the Pembertons as they slowly make their way out of the travel agency, dressed in their Sunday best.  They have long been leaders in the town (Mister Pemberton being the longest serving Mayor, running undefeated until his retirement the previous year), steeped in the town's history, and always dress the part.  John hails the elderly couple, noting the bright sparkle in Mrs. Pemberton's eyes.   

"We got our tickets, John!" she exclaims, fairly beaming, when they draw near.

"You're finally going on that cruise?"  The couple had been saving their pennies for years, and with Mister Pemberton recently retired it seems like they are on their way. 

"Round the world.  Yes, sir," Mister Pemberton begins.  "Though I don't quite know how I'm going to like being back in the South Pacific.  Ain't been there since Dubya Dubya Two.  And with as many Japs as I shot-"

"Frederick!" Mrs. Pemberton exclaimed, smacking him on the shoulder with more oomph than one might expect from a lady of her advanced years and delicate stature.

"Now, Ethel," Fred Pemberton responds, temporarily forgetting they aren't alone (which is fine with John; he's always enjoyed watching the elderly couple go toe-to-toe).  "Uncle Sam drafted me to kill Japs and that's what I did."

"I'm sure you two will have an excellent time," John offers as a distraction to the ever-feuding couple.  He smiles brightly at the pair.  From the looks of things, Mister Pemberton seems to have an advantage in winning arguments so far that morning.

"Now, John," Mrs. Pemberton starts with a remindful tone.  "Are you going to be able to watch Jethro for us?"

He can never say no to the Pembertons.  Especially after all the years they spent watching out for him when he was a youngster.  John's father had been too busy with work, and with his mother dead and buried when he was just a child, John had needed some guidance.  Mrs. Pemberton had been a grandmother-figure to him; Mister Pemberton a grandfather.  "When do you leave?"

"Steam outta Miami Sunday at high noon."  Fred Pemberton turns to his wife, "And it's gonna take us a whole day just to get down there, so we'll leave first thing Saturday morning."

"Oh, Mister Pemberton," John starts, "it won't take you that long.  It's just five hours if you take 75 and then the turnpike the rest of the way.”  _Or, four hours if you're trying to get away from a horrible date_ , John thinks, flashing back to the disastrous night he’d shared with what had surely been an escapee from a mental institution.

The elderly man dismisses that idea.  "I ain't takin' no road named after that godawful Reagan.  The man had Alzheimer's," starts Fred Pemberton's familiar rant.  John knows it will soon be followed with-

"I'm proud of my vote for Mondale in 1984!"

Yep, there it is.  Aiming to head the couple off before they start quarreling about every election since they were married (Fred Pemberton being a lifelong ‘Yellow Dog Democrat’, and Ethel Pemberton a ‘God fearin' Christian Republican woman, but open minded, thank you’ - their own words), John interjects, "So what time do you want me to pick up the ol' boy?"

"'bout 7 o'clock Friday will be just fine," Ethel adds, patting John on the arm.  "And you'll stay for supper?"

"Yes, ma'am," John sighs, knowing when he's licked. 

"And should I set one or two places?" Ethel asks, causing John some consternation.  "Well, now," she tucks her arm back under her husband’s, pulling him closer, "we saw your new gentleman friend Monday night while you were on your way to Skeeters.  Mind you," she glances at Fred, as if to imply John doesn't always display the manners of a proper Southern gentleman, "we didn't actually _get to meet him_.  But it's always nice to have extra comp'ny."  She winks at John, and he realizes she means company for them _and_ company for John.  Mrs. Pemberton has been on John about finding himself a _special someone_ , and he can almost hear her oft repeated, ‘now that you're of an age that _should_ be settlin' down’. 

"Oh, no, ma'am.  Rodney's…" John's at a loss for words.  "He's a mite busy right now with work, so he won't be joining us tomorrow night."  _Or maybe ever_ , John thinks, sighing unhappily.

Mrs. Pemberton easily makes the connection, patting John’s clenched hands.  "It'll be okay, dear," she says reassuringly.  "So.  7 o'clock tomorrow night.  We'll see you then."  Mister Pemberton tips his hat and Mrs. Pemberton bobs her head, while John tips an imaginary hat at them both.

"Drive safe!" he calls after the pair, laughing exasperatedly into his hands before climbing into the next tree due for trimming.  His head fills with thoughts of where to keep Jethro, dinner the following night, and the prodding that he's sure to get from Mrs. Pemberton about 'finally settling down'.  Climbing limb over limb up an overgrown dogwood tree with his mind racing, John barely has time to register a **_snap_!** below his boots.  It’s followed by a kaleidoscope of crashing and scraping, and he wouldn’t have imagined he was this far from the ground.  He snatches at anything he can, losing a glove in the process, but can’t get a grip good enough to halt his progress.  There’s a brief sensation of freefalling before he lands roughly on his left side with a _thud_ , and the world goes black.

~*~*~

Sleeping through John’s visit seems to start of an avalanche of trouble.   Rodney can’t get any of the Ancient doodads to _do_ anything, and the Mountain keeps demanding answers.  There’s also some sort of electrical (well, the Ancient equivalent, anyway) short that he’s expected to diagnose and fix long distance.  He does, of course, but is tempted to do the entire call in Doctor Suntharam’s accent.  (He only resists because Doctor Suntharam was one of the few non-idiots he worked with at Area 51 – and he’s pretty sure that the SGC would tack more time onto his sentence out here in the sticks if he does.)  He tries to steady his nerves with work, though he's anxious for Monday to arrive.  For that's when John will once again grace his doorstep.  On Thursday night, Rodney tries to shorten the time by heading into Citrus Hill for dinner, to maybe get at least a glimpse of John, but gets lost instead.  Though he makes it to the abandoned gas station easily enough (it _is_ right by the graveyard, after all), the directions to downtown prove too much for his overworked and under-rested brain.  He's nice to the group (even responding cordially to those who greet him by name), but the instructions overwhelm him, so he returns home.  Hoping that John might come back before Monday’s recycling (since he had mentioned installing a motion detector light), Rodney tries to stick to a normal schedule; sleeping at night and awake during daylight hours.  _Like regular humans_ , he tells himself, laughing at those mere mortals.  Even a desperately needed run to the Piggly Wiggly is postponed until after Monday.





Rodney is taking his vow very seriously.  He’s started rationing coffee – for _himself_.  He plans to limit his intake to only two pots a day until John is back.  In the end, the lack of caffeine helps Rodney keep to a more regular human schedule.

Monday morning rolls around and Rodney gets out of bed a little more eagerly, expecting that he'll soon be seeing John.  Coffee rationing be damned - he makes an extra pot, cringing at the thought of having to re-use his grounds if he doesn't go to the store soon.  He drops all pretense of work and starts pacing by 11am, wondering where John is.  He's interrupted only by the sound of his stomach, but ignores it, knowing how little is left in his pantry.

At half past noon, Rodney gives in.  He looks over the choices in his small, sparse pantry before settling on a can of Spaghetti O's.  And though they never sit well in his stomach (he's sure the Chef Boyardee company is trying to slowly kill his digestive system), he opens a can, plopping it half-heartedly into a pot on the stove.

No amount of spices or additives can bring pizzazz to Spaghetti O's, but Rodney tries anyway.  Thoughts of 'I'm sure John will show up _any minute_ ' fill his head while he doggedly eats the mushy pasta and still-bland sauce straight from the pot with the wooden spoon.  By the time he finishes his stomach is as heavy as his heart because the clock is declaring that it's well past 1pm, and John is still nowhere to be seen.

As Rodney's contemplating another round of nutritional suicide by canned food, he hears a noise from out back.  Instantly a smile smears across his face and he heads for the back door.  He sees a figure bent over, mostly obscured by the trash cans, and starts, "Oh John… I just wanted to-"

He stops abruptly as a tawdry looking dark-haired youth bolts up, eyeing him blankly.

"You're not John," Rodney accuses.

"Nope."

"But… But…" Rodney's at a loss for words.  " _Where's John?_ " he demands.

"Dunno," is all the young man says.  Only after Rodney impatiently rolls his hand to indicate his need for more detail does the kid manage to add, "I hear he fell out of a tree."

"Tree?!"

"Yeah," the youth drawls, picking up a can, "Heard he was in the hospital." 

Rodney barely hears the last word before he's back in the house, pacing furiously.  He picks up the phone book though he already knows the number he's going to dial.

"Good afternoon.  Sheppard Hauling,” greets a vaguely familiar voice.

"Yes," Rodney starts, trying to breathe calmly.  "I need some information about one of your employees.  His name is-"

"I'm sorry, sir.  We don't give out information about our employees."

"Yes, yes, I know.  But it's very urgent that-"

She cuts him off with, "I can take a message if you like, sir, and pass it on."

Rodney harrumphs and hangs up, now worried _and_ angry.  He picks the phone back up and decides to call his contact at City Hall from last week, thoughts from blackmail to extortion crossing his mind. He’s sure she won’t want her boss hearing how she’s conducting city business from a drive-through, and will be willing to help him in order to keep that from happening.

"Citrus Hill City Hall.  Can I help you?"

Rodney stares at the phone until he hears a faraway "Hello?" from the receiver.  "I'm sorry," he asks.  "Didn't _you_ just answer for Sheppard Hauling a minute ago?"

"Yes, sir - that was me.  Lurlene forwards the phones on her lunch hour.  This is Laura Cadman, the Mayor and Town Council's assistant.  Can I help you? _"_

Rodney sighs into the phone.  "Yes, Miss Cadman.  This is Doctor Rodney McKay-"

"Oh, hey, hon, how are you?" comes the sticky-sweet drawl from the other end.

"Fine.  I'm fine.  I just need to get ahold of John.  John Mayer."




"John Mayer?"  She sounds startled for a long moment, while Rodney considers gnawing his fingernails.  "Oh!  You mean Mayor John."

"Excuse me?"

"Mayor John.  John Sheppard?  Sheppard Hauling?"

"He's the _MAYOR_?!?!"

"Yessir."

" _And_ he owns the garbage company?"

"Garbage **and** recycling company."  Laura sighs before adding, "He's a good catch _._ "  Rodney can almost hear the wink across the phone line.

"Yes, well," Rodney starts, trying not to be distracted by thoughts of possibly having caught John, "some _hoodlum_ just told me that John fell out of a tree.  And was in the _hospital_."

"Ooh, yeah.  That was scary."  Laura pauses.  "You see, he was doin' a tree trimming job in the main square because Jimmy Allen called in sick and…  Well, he fell outta the tree right onto his head _."_

"Oh, his head?" Rodney feels lightheaded as the list of possible injuries from such a landing rush through his mind.  "Is he okay?"

"Oh, sugar," Cadman stated, "It's gonna take a lot more than a crash landing to take John out.  Especially with that hair to cushion it.  Though ol' Jethro might do him in this week."

 _Jethro_? Rodney worries.  Has he been replaced already?  Hadn't they just shared a kiss in the cab of John's recycling truck?  "Can you please give me his number, so I can call him and make sure he's okay?"

Laura considers it for half a second, but remembers the hell she caught for giving John’s number to a blind date in Miami after he’d barely managed to get away from the crazy.  "Sweetie, I'm really sorry, but I’m just _not_ allowed to give out his number." At Rodney’s heavy sigh, she proposes, "But, honey, how about I call him and have him call you.  Is that okay?"

Knowing he’s beat (and that there's nothing on SheppardHauling.net to be hacked, since he's already tried), Rodney sighs resignedly, "Yes, I suppose."  With that, Rodney puts the phone down and stares at it like some lovelorn heroine in a made-for-television movie-of-the-week scheduled to air on _Lifetime: The Network for Women_. He’s never felt more pathetic or useless in his life.     

The minutes tick slowly by as Rodney splits his time watching the clock and imagining he hears the phone ring.  Twenty minutes later, the pacing begins.  After another twenty, Rodney gives in and starts chewing on his fingernails, spitting them haphazardly toward the garbage can (very few make it).  Another hour passes, with Rodney glaring at the phone every other minute daring it (imploring it, really) to ring.

When it finally does, he still startles.  He approaches it apprehensively, and answers more congenially than he has any time since becoming an adult - or at least since starting at the SGC.  "Umm… Hello?"

"Doctor McKay."

John's rich voice comes through the receiver, sounding a little distant.  "Oh, John," Rodney exclaims, "I was so worried.  I heard that you fell-"

"Yeah, I fell out of a tree.  Banged my arm up some.  You gonna be home the next coupla' hours?"

"Yes," Rodney stammers, thrown by John's almost brusque tone.  "John, I just wanted-"

"I thought I might stop by with the light.  That I said I'd install?"  The 'that night that we kissed in my truck' goes unsaid.

"Yes.  Yes, John, I'll be here."

"Good," is all the response Rodney gets before the line goes dead.

Once again, Rodney finds himself staring at his handset, wondering if the world, or the part of it he reaches by phone, anyway, has gone completely off its rocker.  He hangs up, wondering what's going on with John.  He broods for all of two minutes before hearing noises outside, and going to investigate.

He finds John struggling to haul a ladder out of the detached garage.  He’s wearing his standard coveralls-and-boots combo, but with a new-issue sling supporting his left arm.  Rodney hurries over.  "You don't have to do that _now_.  Just let it be."  He reaches to pull the ladder back even as John tries to steady it against the side of the garage.  "Wait," Rodney asks.  "How did you get here so quickly?  You just hung up, like, ten seconds ago."

John gives Rodney a sheepish, but still guarded, look.  "I called after I pulled up.  Wasn't sure if you were home or not.  Wasn't sure if you _wanted_ to be home or not, McKay." John’s hurt tone (with faint hints of accusation) adds to the already thick atmosphere of a humid Florida afternoon.

John continues to fidget with his ladder and tools - but every time he gets something in place, Rodney pulls it back, frustrating them both. Rodney finally grabs John's shoulder, careful of his injured arm, and spins him around.  "Look, John," Rodney starts accusingly.  "I don't know what in the hell is going on here.  And I don't know why you're pissed off at me-"  John tsks loudly, and Rodney stops him with an admonishing finger aimed right between his eyes,  "Not finished!"  He tries to calm down and manage his words better.  "Listen.  You and I shared a wonderful night, and a _spectacular_ kiss.  I still have the bruise on my forehead to prove it!"  He gently rubs the pale yellow-green discoloration, tangible proof of the date he’d _believed_ they had both enjoyed.  "I don't know what's going on with you-"

"What's going on with me?"  John moves into Rodney's personal space, threateningly rather than fun and friendly.  " _I_ came by on Tuesday, _Rodney_.  _I_ stopped by to see _you_.  But _you_ ," John thumps a finger from his good hand into Rodney's breastbone, fueled by a week of pining, " _YOU_ weren't home.  Or you _were_ home and just didn't want to _see me_."

"I was asleep," Rodney confesses meekly, guilty about the worry he now realizes he’d caused John.

" _ASLEEP_?!?!" John exclaims, "I made enough noise out here to wake the dead, _McKay_ , and you were nowhere to be found.  Seems like you didn't _want_ to see me, _Rodney_."

"Yes, well."  Rodney starts feebly, but gains conviction, his voice rising with every word.  "I'm normally a very heavy sleeper.  And _if_ you'd bother to _sleep_ with me, you'd know that I can't be _woken_ by clamor that would rouse _either_ mere mortals _or_ the dead."  Rodney huffs and goes on, "I finally have an alarm clock that, at least _usually_ -" John’s distraction and the laughter he's trying (and failing) to suppress bring Rodney grinding to a halt.  "What?"

"Sleep with you, McKay?"  John snorts.

"Oh, god," Rodney blurts, and starts to backpedal.  "I didn't mean that."  He almost panics when John’s eyes widen at the denial, but manages to stammer, "I mean, yeah, I _did_ mean it like that.  But I didn't… Oh, god," Rodney sighs, running a stressed hand through his hair.  "I'm no good at this…"

John laughs and cuts the distance, placing a hand on Rodney's chest.  "You serious, Rodney?" he asks softly.  Rodney's explanation dissipates the gloom he’s been sulking under all week and lets him concentrate on the pining at hand.

"About the waking the dead, or the sleeping with me?"

"Well, now-" is all John gets out before Rodney moves in, pinning him against the side of the garage.  Rodney pours maddening kisses over John's throat, the side of his mouth, and all over his face until John makes a small, pained, "oow" when Rodney pins his slinged arm between them. 

"Sorry, sorry, sorry!"  Rodney exclaims, pulling back.  Suddenly, realizing that they’re in full view of anyone driving by (and any neighbor who happens to look a window), he starts looking around suspiciously.

"Fuck it," John mutters, grabbing a handhold in Rodney's shirt and dragging him into the dim half-light of the garage, all the while gathering kisses of his own.  He pushes Rodney onto the hood of his car and pins him there, grinding his hips down and feeling Rodney's hardness against his own.  He growls into Rodney's throat, sucking on the rough and prickly skin.  John grabs Rodney's nipple with his good hand, pinching it slowly until Rodney lets a moan slip out.  Pinned, Rodney lays back and lets John devour him whole.  Fingers slither under his shirt before it's hastily pulled off and tossed aside, revealing pink skin and darkened nipples that betray the strength of Rodney's desire.  Leaning down, John takes a nipple into his mouth, while his hand explores towards Rodney's crotch. 

Rodney feels a hand clumsily working his belt buckle, but meets resistance when he tries to help.  "Mine," John growls, claiming Rodney's mouth with his own.  It takes John a little while, hampered as he is by his injury, to get Rodney's pants down to puddle at his ankles.  John, fully dressed, takes in the view of his panting, eager sex partner and mutters, “Fuck" before returning to devour Rodney once again.

~*~*~

Lips bruised with kissing, John feels Rodney's cock hard against his coveralls and a wet spot where it's leaking liberally.  John has no idea when Rodney got his pants fully off, but he's glad to feel Rodney's ankles gaining purchase on the swell of his ass.  Pulling closer, he unzips his coveralls, shrugging them off his good shoulder, and fidgets with his sling until he's mostly free of clothing.  Rodney whimpers at the sight, pulling John closer.  He hears Rodney chanting, "Fuck me, John.  Fuck me, John," over and over again, and pulls the buttons on his jeans free in one easy motion. While his cock twitches in anticipation, John thrusts two fingers into Rodney's mouth where they're sucked appreciatively.  He pulls them out and, after getting a quick nod, plunges them eagerly into Rodney’s ass.  Rodney responds by wrapping his legs around John's waist.

John plays his fingers in Rodney's ass until the chant becomes a breathy stream.  The pair manages, despite a hurt arm and charlie horses, to get Rodney's ankles up on John's shoulders.  Once settled, John snugs the head of his dick against Rodney’s opening.  Just before he pushes in, he claims Rodney's mouth, capturing the whimper as his engorged cock enters Rodney's ass.  Leaning back, he pistons his hips, working Rodney's prostate with each downward thrust.  Seconds seem like hours as the two fuck in the hot garage, sweat dripping freely.  By the clenching around his cock, John realizes that Rodney must be close.  He pulls Rodney's ankles from his shoulders and leans in, slowing his pace.  He wants to feel it, see it when Rodney comes.

Foreskin fully retracted, and too kissed-dumb to anticipate it, Rodney's surprised when the orgasm overtakes him.  He spews stream after stream of ropey come over John's t-shirt, clamping hard on John’s cock as spasms shudder through his body. 

The clutching is enough to bring John to the brink.  He pulls out of Rodney's ass, discards his condom, and gives his cock a couple of quick strokes, painting his load all over the side of the car.  Rodney leans up and pulls John down on top of him, feeling each wave as it shivers through John's body, until they lie still, their panting the only sound coming from the garage.

"Oh, my…" Rodney starts.

" _Fuck_!" John exclaims, finishing Rodney's thought. 

"Yeah.  That," Rodney deadpans, pulling John even closer, their breath finally slowing to something approaching normal.

"Well," John says, lifting up and examining Rodney and the mess they've made, "I know one thing."

A look of concern crosses Rodney's face.  "What?"

John laughs wryly.  "I owe you a car wash."


End file.
